Oil painting: Rivers of the Heart (11 x 14)
Under the cover of ages and the quiet of all things unsaid, there’s a split — not within rock, but in realness. A monster river the color of blues cuts through substance mostly not as liquid or airy, but some ancient substance: direction first, the old affirmation before words were attributed to things.
It doesn’t run. It is.
The land writhes with memory on either side-textured, pink and ochre like forgotten flame, alive with the ache of something just out of reach. It is not soil. It is emotion compressed into pigment. It is passion fossilized into form.
Tiny sparkling particles float in the air—as if some kind of cosmic dust or glittering stars that whispered at the edge of perception and crumbled to Earth. They hang behind that gap’s blue trail, tracking some flow none can visibly register, only sense.
Not landscape. Inflection, spiritual tectonic shift at moment where creation decides to split which way- into self or into dream. No forking Y-shape, but a choice.
This is where the soul diverged, or maybe where it merged again.
A tear in the world. A vein of light beneath the skin of form.
Here, color remembers what silence forgot.